Silk in the Shadows (2)
by Robespierre-vs.-Napoleon
Summary: Diana Lloyd Webber, Andrew Lloyd Webber's (fictional) granddaughter, is cast in a high-school production of the latter's musical. Somehow, she is taken into the musical itself. The Opera House is full of twists and turns, treachery and deceit. It will take all of her cunning to survive this experience. Diana doesn't want to fall in love, but, if she does, it's just a bonus.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Before we start, yes, I am aware that Andrew Lloyd Webber's daughter, Imogen, currently is not married and has no children. This is an A/U where Imogen had a sperm donor, and, as a result, had a daughter, the main character of this story. I'm also aware that there are millions of fanfictions like this...but have any of them been Andrew Lloyd Webber's fictional granddaughter?! NOPE!**_

_**THIS IS REALLY LONG! I'M SO SORRY THAT I MADE IT SO LONG! FORGIVE ME!**_

_** Don't like it? Go to the next story! No flames, please!**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I don't own either the book or the musical.**_

_**There is mild swearing in this chapter.**_

* * *

I hate being famous. I'm not famous for something I did, nor for something that I will do. My fame comes from my family, which is something that is beyond my reasonable control. Believe me, if I had a choice on who my family is, specifically, who my grandfather is, I would.

If you would want your father to be an anonymous sperm donor, please, do raise your hand. Nobody? Wow, I can genuinely say that I am not surprised. I still hate that my mother, Imogen, couldn't get married like a normal person, couldn't have children like a normal person, nor could she give her poor, dear child frightened by her instant fame the moment she was born protection from the world and the media. My dad is an anonymous sperm donor. I don't know who he is, and neither does my mother or any other family member. Who knows what diseases I could have inherited from my father, whom I'll never have the extreme misfortune of meeting? Thankfully, none. The only thing that I apparently inherited from him is my appearance. My dark brown hair, my high cheekbones, my chin, my bust are all unusual to my maternal side of the family, so all from my paternal side. My strong British accent, my attitude, and my eyes are all passed down to me from my mother. My musical talent started with my grandfather, skipped my mother, and went straight to me. Music is engrained into my daily life….my grandfather jokes that I have musical notes floating through my veins instead of normal blood. As a child, that made me think of treble clefs, half notes, whole notes, and all kinds of rests bundled together, giving me life….and they practically do.

Now, I pose another question for you: who would want Andrew Lloyd Webber to be their grandfather?

I know, I should be grateful. It's the object of every fan-girl's fantasy. But the fame, the fortune, and the unbearable weight of the legacy that I have to carry on are all burdens that I must carry with me for every second. He loves me, but after I sing, every time that I look at him for his approval, I can see the memory in his eyes as he nods to me. I guess that I remind him too much of Sarah Brightman, his ex-wife, when I sing for the family at our monthly dinner meetings. I'm told that I show the same enthusiasm for music that she did, even though I'm not related to her.

Phantom of the Opera was practically my life sustenance when I was growing up. It makes sense, considering that my grandfather wrote the musical. As a result, I have every single song memorized, and I can also play the background music on most of the instruments in the orchestra. Frightening, my mother says, is how well I know it, almost as well as my own grandfather, perhaps even better. And I can tell that it's true.

* * *

"No, Margie, I won't give you Ramin Karimloo's phone number," I say to my best friend as I slam the red metal locker's door closed.

She bulges her bright blue eyes and folds her hands together in a mixture of prayer and begging. "Why not, Di?"

I accidentally misstep and almost send my books flying, so I hoist my books back up with one arm and readjust my grey fedora with the other(Yes, I wear fedoras. Don't judge me). "First of all, my name is Diana, not Di," I sternly remind her. "Second of all, giving away a celebrity's phone number is rude and unethical. His phone would blow up from all of the calls from obsessed fan-girls." Margie has been my best friend since I was a tiny tot and we were both running around on our chubby little legs in kindergarten. We both share a passion for the classical music and musicals in general. We're both loners as well, even though, according to Margie, I have "a crapload of hot guys running after me." That's just how Margie is, and that is why she's my best and only friend, despite how many people want to be my friend because of my grandfather.

She sighs and flipped her messy blonde ponytail back over her shoulder. "Pooh. You always ruin the fun, Diana."

"Glad to be a help," I say sarcastically. The bell rings loudly, signifying the end of another monotonous day of high school in Great Britain.

Margie reminds, "Diana, you didn't forget that we have practice, did you? I'm surprised."

"Ah, yes, how could I forget?" I question as I roll my eyes. Then, I flinch as one of the older lights suddenly blows out above my head. This school really needs a new electrical and lighting system, which they should be able to afford, since people pay so much tuition to be able to go to this performing arts school.

"We're doing _Phantom of the Opera. _How could I dare to forget that it also so happens that my dear grandfather, Andrew Lloyd Webber, is directing it?" I scowl, "I don't even know how they got him to direct this."

"He's your grandfather, Di!" Margie corrects herself, "Sorry, Diana."

"I know, but still," I whine.

"Still what? It will help bring in revenue for the school," Margie says. "Maybe then they can fix this crappy lighting system." We laugh together for a minute before we come upon the great wooden doors of the auditorium, the pride and joy of the school. Way back in the sixties, when our school was founded, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II dedicated the school, and even today she remains a patron of the school. In the auditorium, there's even a photograph of her cutting the ribbon to the entrance of the school.

"And don't forget who's playing Christine!" Margie squealed. "My best mate, Diana Elizabeth Lloyd Webber!"

I groan. "Don't remind me, Margie. I didn't even try that hard at auditions. Grandfather MADE me attend, and then, BOOM! I get the role of Christine. Coincidence? I think not."

"Even if your grandfather did hijack the audition results, you're still playing the most coveted role," Margie reminds. Then, she drops her voice to a whisper, "And you can bet every pound you have that Carla Goodwin is jealous that you got it and she got stuck with...Carlotta." She says the name of the female antagonist of the musical as if it will call up the Devil himself. "And the guy who's playing Raoul is HAWT."

"Margie, you can't slap the name Raoul on somebody and expect them to be hot," I murmur. "Raoul Corning is not 'hawt.'"

"But the guy who's playing the Phantom is," she swoons, pressing her hands to her heart and head as if she will faint right there in the dimly-lit hallway. "Erik Delaurier? He's the cutest guy in school, and you know it. Remember, in seventh grade, when you had a-MMPH!" The rest of her words are muffled as I clap my hand over her mouth, effectively cutting her off.

"We do not speak of it," I remind her crossly. "Just because I had a crush on him, and he had a crush on me, and we dated for like two months, it doesn't mean anything." It sounds ridiculous, even to me, and I mentally face-palm myself. Oh God. Now I'm starting to sound crazy.

"Yeah, when he kissed you on the last day of school in front of your grandfather, and he had a cow," she laughs. "He told him to go molest other young ladies, but he certainly wouldn't stand a chance with you if he did that again. Your grandfather scared him off for good. Now that you're playing significant others in the musical, maybe you two can...rekindle your romance? Love never dies, remember, your grandfather wrote a musical about it!"

"Yeah, sure," I say. And it's just to get her to shut up, because we're backstage at last. The backstage at our school is so fantastic. In my mind, it will never match up to the splendor of the Royal Albert Hall in London, but to some people, the backstage is as good as they'll ever see, the poor blokes.

"Hey, Diana," a voice says behind me. I whip around to see who it is. Carla.

"Carla," I regard coldly. "How are you?"

"Fine," she replies icily. "Is your grandfather going to give you something for nothing again?"

"Oh my gosh," I say, looking to the ceiling. "It's just a musical, Carla. You're playing one of the main characters. Get a grip."

Margie steps in. "Come on, Diana, she's not worth it." And I walk away with her, turning my gaze from Carla even as my hatred for her burns underneath my skin, making me as red as a tomato...at least, that's how I imagine it.

Then, my grandfather walks up to us. "Margie, Diana."

"Mr. Lloyd Webber, how wonderful to see you," Margie says politely, shaking his hand.

"And you too, Margie," my grandfather replies courteously. "Just so you know, tonight is a 'pop' dress rehearsal. I'll need you two to go get your costumes on and head to hair and makeup immediately...Margie, in Meg's white ballet dress, and Diana, in the title song costume. We're kind of on a tight schedule here, I'm sorry." Just like that, Grandfather walks away, muttering about how precious and little time we have before opening night.

"Well, that aside," I say, "see you in a minute, Margie. I'm going to go get ready." She waves goodbye before strolling off in the direction of her dressing room.

As one of the main characters, I get a dressing room all to myself. Inside, it is painted a sickeningly sweet shade of pink, with an elegant wallpaper pattern of intertwining roses all down the walls. Of course, there's a vanity mirror where one of the many hair and makeup artists will ready me. The chaise longue is a shade of mauve that has a seductive quality to it. The large painting of a bowl of roses is the epitome of the room. however, the most fascinating part of it for me is the stark, simple, full-length mirror that hangs on the wall in the back. On the surface, it's clear and smooth, with a plain wooden frame. It almost looks like it could slide to the side if I pulled it hard enough, I think internally as I finish wrapping the white robe from the most famous scene in the whole musical around my torso.

A loud knock resounds at the door. "Miss? Are you ready?" I recognize the voice of Ms. Cornwall, the makeup artist assigned to me, at the door.

"I'll be ready in a minute, Ms. Cornwall," I reply to her. "It shall take a minute, not longer." I hear her retreat from the door, probably to somebody who actually didn't spend 15 whole minutes staring at a mirror.

A chill runs down my spine as I get the feeling that somebody is watching me. Nobody is in the room, so it's a ridiculous notion. I shake my head and bend down to pick up the pale pink slippers to put on my feet when the feeling of not being alone washes over me yet again. Suddenly, my body freezes as all of the lights in the room suddenly go out.

"Damn electricity," I mutter, then return to work on my attire.

"Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory!" a voice rings out, echoing through the room and making me stand straight up in shock, facing the mirror, the apparent source of the sound. "Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!"

"Haha, Delaurier, very funny. Now stop it," I laugh, dismissing it as a childish prank and turning around to call Ms. Cornwall back to do my hair up. But, something inside me makes me snap back around and sing back, "Angel, I hear you! Speak, I listen...stay by my side, guide me!" This is sheer madness, yet I have no control over my body for some unknown reason. My head drifts down to look at the floor as if in shame or embarrassment. "Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me. Enter at last, master!"

"Flattering child, you shall know me," the voice gloats, still singing, "See why in shadow I hide...look at your face in the mirror! I am there inside!"

At the corner of the mirror, a half-masked face is clearly visible, expanding to show the body of a black-cloaked man. "Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory! Angel of Music, hide no longer! Come to me, strange angel!"

I was right, the mirror can slide to the side, just as it does, revealing the mysterious man in his entirety. "I am your Angel of Music, come to me Angel of Music."

At the door, somebody is banging against it and knocking. I recognize the voice of my grandfather, who says, "Whose is that voice? Who is that in there?" I want so much to be able to turn around and speak to him, but the invisible force holding me back prevents that. Oh, how he must be frightened for me!

"I am your Angel of Music, come to me Angel of Music!" the voice demands of me, and I can only comply. My hand reaches out hesitantly, but I pull it back slowly in hesitation before making up my mind and grasping his hand as the mirror slides shut behind us.

Through the mirror, I can hear somebody yelling, "Diana!"

* * *

He leads me through a twisting, winding maze of brick hallways in a decidedly downward spiral. This is just like in the musical. Oh God, I realize, I'm in the musical. Gerard Butler...no, the Phantom...is taking me to his underground lair below the opera house. Why is this happening to me? Only magic could take me into a musical. Magic isn't real, so this must be impossible! It must be like in a fanfiction, where the girl is really in a dream or got knocked out or...or something. There has to be a logical explanation, there does.

We descend by the light of many candelabra that are attached to the wall, and he occasionally turns to look back at me. Everything is going just like in the musical. Holy crap. Holy crap. I'm hyperventilating, and I can't even help it. When he notices, he caresses my arm gently, and I calm down immediately. It's almost like he has me under a spell. I'm so out of tune with the world that I don't even notice that we're at his underground lair, his home, the source of some of the most crucial events of the musical, and I also didn't realize that I sang the title song and hit the high note perfectly before I take several deep heaves to regain my breath from holding such a long note.

The Phantom flings his dark black cape to the side, then grasps me by the waist to lift me from the gondola. I suddenly notice that I'm wearing a corset that I had never put on. Is this some part of the deal? He gently lets me go when he has me safely hovering over the shoreline.

"How I've longed to bring you here," he whispers, lifting my chin to get a look at my face. Then, he suddenly drops his hand and backs away. "You're not my Christine!"

"Well, no freaking duh, Sherlock," I say sarcastically.

"Who are you, you impersonator?" he demands angrily, shaking me by my shoulders. "What did you do with my Christine?"

I step back and put my hands on my hips. "First of all, I'm not an impersonator! Second of all, she's not YOUR Christine!" Oh wait, that part of the musical hasn't happened yet, he shouldn't know that Christine doesn't like him like that...oops. You can't change what's already been said.

Now I have him genuinely confused. "But...but you have a British accent. Christine doesn't have a British accent. And you're wearing her clothes, as well."

"You're on a roll today. Want to point out more obvious things? I think I can help you," I say, "see, you're a boy, but it's still hard to tell."

"I detest that!" he cries indignantly. "You are a rude little girl."

"I'm not a little girl, you son of a bitch!" I return. "I'm eighteen years old. That's older than 'your' Christine! Christine is the little girl!"

"Christine is far more mature than you," he murmurs as he turns to go to his organ. "She'd never behave like a spoilt brat."

"Okay, you crossed the line there!" I screech as I launch myself at him, tackling him to the ground. We fight, wrestle, and throw insults at each other for a few minutes before we get to the very edge of the subterranean lake, and I fall into the frigid water. I panic, as I don't know how to swim, before I realize that I can stand in the shallow water. I rise from the waters and return to the shore dripping wet, the white dressing gown and the inner layers of my costume thoroughly soaked. and plastered to my skin. The chilly, underground air makes the water that clings desperately to my skin even colder.

The Phantom helps me back up. He looks sorry, and concerned. "Mademoiselle?"

"Call me Diana," I gasp before I faint into his arms.


	2. Chapter 2

**HEY PEOPLES! **

**I know I haven't updated in FOREVER, but school just started, and I didn't have a lot of time to work on my writing. SORRY! Here, take the story…..**

***RUUUUUNS***

**Also, there is a reference to a FaceBook page hidden in the story, and there is a reference to a Disney song in here too, both of which happen to be private obsessions of mine. If you can find and name both of them…..**

**YOU ARE A GENIUS. XD**

* * *

My eyes open slowly, adjusting to the dim light of the underground place. I feel cold, uncomfortable-and, wait, why am I underground? I sit up like I was shocked by a jolt of electricity, and my curly hair cascades down my back with the movement. A tentative hand reaches up to touch the top of my head….where is my hat? I look down. Where are my shirt, my jacket, my boots, and my jeans? Why am I wearing a white nightgown that, although it feels like the finest silk, is completely out of place? And then, it hits me.

The memories of the previous evening come back like a flood. The rehearsals. Erik at school, Margie, laughing with me, Carla, being irritated, and Grandfather, telling me to get ready. The lights in the room going out, the sudden chill; the mirror opening, the Phantom, Erik, standing there in the open mirror. Me, suddenly molding and transforming into a whole different person, and the two of us singing together, my voice and his entwining to echo throughout the lonely corridors below the Opera House.

I stand up, looking at my surroundings and being impressed by what I see. The red velvet curtains draped over several full-length mirrors are dark and beautiful, the woodwork is gorgeous, and the candles emit a romantic aura around the domain. It feels almost as if he was trying or planning on seducing somebody. Another thing: the pounding vibrations of angry organ music…..music that sounds familiar, almost as if I've heard it before, and I know I have. This is the part right after, 'Music of the Night,' which, if my memory serves correctly, never happened.

As I cross the corner, I come upon the main room of the phantom's domain. He sits hunched over at the organ, pounding away at the keys like hellfire is raining down around him. He looks up, and stops when he notices my timid figure standing around the curve, watching him. Shaking his head, he returns to his music and flips through it, muttering under his breath about something. The white curve of his mask makes him look mysterious, and attractive-I can understand why Christine fell for him so quickly, he is quite handsome at the moment.

Tentatively, I approach him on nervous legs-and I'm sure it shows in the way that I walk. Suddenly, the magical sensation flows through me again. My motion has brought me to stand next to him, and I stroke the side of his face. "Who is that face in the shadows? Whose is that face in the mask?" I sing. Before my fingers can slip under and pull the mask off, I pull them back ever so slightly. Even though I know what will happen, what he will do to 'Christine,' my curiosity surges. Arousing his anger, I know, will not be a wise thing, but then I remember the words of my Grandfather as he sits before the great piano: "Diana, remember to take chances. If you never are daring enough to take chances, then you have not lived and are most certainly not a Lloyd Webber." The mask is surprisingly easy to take off, and it is gripped between my tightened fingers. He covers his face to quickly for me to see what he truly looks like. The gravity of what I have done sinks in as the Phantom of the Opera flies into the famous rage.

"Damn you!" he screams, knocking over the piano bench while also covering the deformed side of his face. "You little prying Pandora! You little demon! Is this what you wanted to see?"

As he advances towards me menacingly, I try to run, but he grabs my wrist and twists me to face him. "Damn you, you little lying Delilah...you little viper! Now you cannot ever be free!" His words scare me immensely, and, even though I know what happens in the end, it still frightens me. I know what he is capable of.

"Damn you, curse you..." he whispers, trailing off.

He straightens his back and hisses at me, his back still turned. "Stranger than you dreamt it, can you even dare to look or bear to think of me...this lonesome gargoyle who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for heaven, secretly, secretly..."

Unable to bear listening to the painful longing in his saddened voice, I hand him the smooth, white covering back. "Here. I'm so sorry."

Erik, without saying anything, gently retrieves his mask and puts it back on, smoothing out the black hairpiece. "Christine."

"I'm not Christine," I remind boldly. "I'm Diana. Diana Lloyd Webber."

He sighs and sits down for a moment before bolting upright. "Come, we must return."

Now, he grabs my arm and drags me towards the boat. "Those two fools who run MY theatre will be missing you."

And I daren't say otherwise. The managers don't know who I am. Nobody above knows who I am. But I needn't anger him further.

* * *

I awake to the sounds of giggling and laughing young women. My eyes open, and my field of vision is filled with the young women who make up the _corps de ballet_. They all gasp and continue twittering when they see I am awake. "Madame Giry, Madame Giry!" one of them calls to a distant figure. "The Phantom's lady is awake!"

The Phantom's lady? Before I can ask questions, a tall, thin being that can only be Madame Giry glides effortlessly into the room, her stride graceful from years of the plies, pirouettes, and dancing in general. Her hair is done up in a braid, the long brunette hair falling over her shoulder. She is dressed in her signature black gown with a simple cane in one hand. "Ah, mademoiselle, you are awake. Welcome to the dormitories of the Opera House."

"What time is it? Bloody hell," I groan.

All of the young ladies gasp. Oops. I forgot that cursing is socially unacceptable in 19th-century France. "It is about 9:00 a.m.," Madame Giry replies calmly with a knowing smile, either not caring or choosing to ignore my coarse words. "You have missed breakfast and morning rehearsals."

"And Carlotta's rampage!" Meg, with her mid-back blonde hair, chimes in. "You should have heard her squeal when she received a note from the Opera Ghost! She got the leading role in Il Muto, what a shame..."

"Marguerite Giry!" Madame Giry warns. "She is Prima Donna. And be careful...the walls have ears." At this, everyone cautiously whips their heads around, looking for an unknown force or person. "And please, the poor girl is tired enough, and looks confused. She is not from around here. She comes from England."

"England!" one of the girls sighs breathlessly. "How is it there?"

"It's a lovely place," I reply.

"Have you met the Queen?" another eagerly questions.

"Yes I have," I answer proudly, puffing my chest out as I slip my feet over the side of the small bed. "I can tell you, she is a good and honest woman". I'm not lying, either, because I have met the queen- albeit in my time. The room explodes into an excited frenzy when I deliver this news.

Madame Gory taps the ground three times with her cane. "Girls!" she reprimands sharply. "Leave. I must help Mademoiselle Diana get dressed for the day.". The young ladies quietly file out of the room, each staring at the ground as if struck themselves by her cane.

The door shuts and locks. Madame Gory turns to me. "Please, get undressed."

I shyly shed my clothing to leave only my socks and underwear. She wraps the corset around my already curvy torso and tightens it, perhaps too tight. My poor lungs aren't used to being constricted so much, and it is difficult to breath for a minute. She slips the other underclothes on my body, and finally pulls out a dress. The dress is not new, that I can tell, but it is presentable enough for a day dress at an Opera House. The red fabric is softer than I expected. Putting on some leather boots, I stepped back. My hair, up in a plain bun, looks surprisingly elegant on me.

I am escorted out of the room and to the backstage, where the cast of Il Muto is dressed up in the fancy clothing of the 18th century. Some of the women look at me and gossip behind their fans. Andre and Firming, the managers, step out with a tall man who looks very familiar-ah, Raoul-and an even taller man, who can only be the Comte, Philippe de Chagny. Rreal-life-Raoul looks exactly like Hadley Fraser, no joke.

"Ah, madames and monsieurs! We have a member of our patron family here with us today...this is Comte Philippe de Chagny." Everybody claps, as was expected. I cannot. I am too busy staring at the man. He is handsome, that is for sure. His smooth chestnut hair is combed backward with a small swirl at the roots, he has a trimmed mustache atop his thin lips, and his white teeth are spread in a grand smile that takes my breath away. The Comte is well-groomed and tall-skinny, as well, but not too skinny-and just right. But no! I shake my head. I don't know him, I reason, and I just think he's hot.

"It is an honour to finally be able to visit the Opera House," the Comte says. "I am looking forward to getting involved in the work here."

"-And it is an honour to have you!" Andre exclaims. "I trust you have met our leading lady?"

Carlotta Giudicelli, despite all of her faults, cannot be described as anything but lovely. Although she is a short, plump woman, her flaming red hair, full lips, and chocolate-brown eyes compliment her natural beauty. While she isn't very skinny, the extra weight actually serves to make her beauty more enhanced somehow. The way she carries herself-with an air of dignity and pride-is recognizable. She is pretty, and she knows it. If I did not know better, I would say that she resembles Wendy Ferguson to an almost carbon copy.

"Ah yes, I have met the Signora," the Comte smiles. "As I have also met Signor Piangi."

The managers eagerly proceed to introduce him to tedious cast member to tedious cast member, dragging it out as long as possible so that their precious patron is not left blind to anything. And finally, after he finishes with everybody, the Comte turns to me. "Who is this mademoiselle?"

"Ah...um..." Firmin stutters for a moment, finally at a loss for words, "I...I don't actually know."

Madame Giry pipes up before I can open my mouth to introduce myself. "This is Mademoiselle Diana Lloyd Webber, a young British woman on a visit." How she knows so much-the Phantom must have told her. Him and her are close-knit, though not enough to be considered friends. "She is here in the Opera House because there was...a change of plans. She will be staying here for a while."

"Well," the Comte grins, holding my hand, "it is a great pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Lloyd Webber." Philippe kisses my hand, and while I try to tame it, I am sure that the blush creeps up and overtakes my rosy complexion.

"Please," I smile back, "call me Diana."

"Diana," he responds, standing up as the crowd disperses to attend to rehearsals, "I look forward to possibly seeing you in the future."

"And I you," I say politely. "It was grand meeting you, monsieur."

* * *

For the next few weeks, I don't see Philippe again. All of my time is taken up with helping the seamstresses sew the outfits for the performances, stitch by stitch. Each one needs to be perfect. Not one can be out of place. I sew to the sound of Carlotta's pathetic attempt at singing, Piangi's rumbling baritone, and the footfalls of the ballerinas as they practice. They're so graceful, and dance as if the music is guiding them.

I get to know Christine and Meg better. I know them well enough from reading the book and watching the musical, but I learn more intimate details that nobody could know but me. They quickly become my friends, and we laugh and chat together in between rehearsals. Christine got the part of Serafimo, the pageboy-the silent role, contrary to the wishes of the Opera Ghost. Meg got the role of Serafimo's decoy. Meg is content to be able to escape from the ballet, even if only for one act. Even though she has grown up in the business, I can understand how things can get tiring after being constant. I would know, after all, wouldn't I?

~o~

One day, about a week before rehearsals, I finish the grand dress for Carlotta-the Countess' dress-that I had been tasked with creating. It is a masterpiece in itself, taking over two weeks of constant toil and hardship to create. Every lace detail, every delicate silken bolt of cloth, it's all perfect. I enter the Prima Donna's dressing room, and hold it out to her. "Here, Madame," I say politely. "Your gown is finished."

She takes in the sight of me with a haughty air, and sticks her nose up. "Very well. Drape it over the dressing board, right there, Di-di."

I start. "My name is not Di-di. It is Diana." Maybe she forgot what my name is?

"I decided that I like Di-di much better," she replies snootily.

"But-"

"But nothing! I am Prima Donna of this Opera House, and you are but a lowly seamstress. I make the rules here."

At this point, I'm ready t haul off and slap this crazy witch. But before I can, the dressing room mirror over the makeup table shatters into tiny pieces, flying everywhere. Carlotta screams and ducks behind the dressing stand, attracting the attention of the people nearby. All at once, many people rush in, worrying and wondering about what ever could frighten Carlotta so. I, however, stand there quietly, staring at something that lies in the thin shards of glass. It's a plain manila envelope, sealed with red wax in the shape of a skull.

And it has my name on it.


End file.
